


Brown Eyes, Good-Bye

by Vanillinzucker



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternative Universe - Titanic, Class Differences, F/F, Heir!Jean, I'll probably add more characters later on, M/M, POV Third Person, Singer!Marco, Titanic AU, the main focus is Jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 04:50:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1497277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanillinzucker/pseuds/Vanillinzucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my self-indulgent Titanic AU, because one of my mortal sins is that I watched Titanic every week when I was little. Consider yourself warned. </p><p>When Jean's father announced that they were going to move (again), Jean didn't know it would end up with him and his sister being on the Titanic, shipped off to America with the rest of the High Society (including the insufferable Eren Jaeger and his cute butler) and the ones seeking a better life there, like the broke, but talented, singer Marco Bott, who scraped up what little money he had to use the one skill he has in a hopefully better place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brown Eyes, Good-Bye

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this! I know Titanic AU is not the most original thing, but as I said, it's pretty self-indulgent. Make way for rich boy Jean and singer Marco to find each other on the ship.  
> Kisses, hugs and kitties to all of you.

„I’m going to fucking cry“, he muttered under his breath, keeping his head down to avoid facing the insufferable masses around him. The cuss earned him a slap on the back of his head from his father, who had well heard him – “Mind your language, son.” – and an apprehensive glare from his younger sister, whose hat was so ridiculously oversized that one could barely make out the light blonde hair under the brim, let alone her green eyes.

“Pay attention, we’re going to board now.” the taller man said, sighing, probably about having to be in (relatively) tight quarters with his self-proclaimed ungrateful children for more than the two hours they had afternoon tea together on regular days. “And I want you to either keep your mouth shut or think about what you’re saying beforehand, Jean.”

Mr. Kirschtein, Jean senior, gave him a last warning nod before advancing further in the line. It wasn’t too long – not as long as the lines to the lower classes for sure – but it still made Jean (the younger one) reel. He grabbed a fistful of his combed back brown hair, a habit his father would condemn as well if he hadn’t been busy yelling at his butler, who must’ve been grateful without measure to be left in England instead of having to put up with him for a second longer. The poor guy had to endure the journey to them when they moved from France to England almost 10 years ago – a business decision, as seemingly everything was in their lives.

His sister slightly nudged him with her bony elbow, causing him to shuffle around.

“Valérie?”  
She looked up at him, rubbing her neck with her long, white-gloved fingers.  
“I’m a bit scared of getting on this thing.” she admitted quietly, a bit pale around the nose. Looking up the ship’s hull himself, he had to admit it was quite intimidating. Jean didn’t know how high the thing was – apart from obviously _towering_ over the masses that were flooding the Southampton dock at the moment - but he read in the newspaper that it was 270 m long. To be honest, he couldn’t imagine the RMS Titanic swimming at all until he saw it for the first time at around 10 o’clock, an hour before the boarding process started to begin for real. Their luggage was loaded in before and he and his sister watched as their whole life was once again packed into boxes and suitcases to be conveniently carried off to whatever places his father had to be next.

“It’s going to be fine.” he said, although he wasn’t sure himself. Being surrounded by rich people was something he was accustomed too, but pulling a straight face around the same people every evening – he wasn’t sure he was able to pull it off. Valérie was better at it, having the natural grace of his mother and being the _delightful_ 15-year-old girl, but he wasn’t sure how much of it was just an act.

“I do believe it’s going to be _fine_. But is it going to be fun?” She looked at him as if she searched for his genuine opinion (a generally oppressed, almost mythic thing), but Jean shook his head. He was at a loss. In a rare moment of sibling bonding, they stared up the ship, taking in the sight of the freshly painted black and white ship uncertainly. Valérie grabbed his elbow for a moment, but let go when their father called “Stop glaring holes into the ship, you two. We can go aboard now.” Neither of them knew what to make of their supposed new home, America. They were frightened, but for different reasons: Jean, as he gingerly walked up the gangway in his new, pinstriped suit, sighed at the prospect of having to constantly act as his father’s perfect pet son – destination: complete and utter boredom, for the rest of his life, best served with tea and scones.

They were greeted polite and most likely faked cheerful by the immaculate stewards. He looked around the polished wooden floors and saw a classical interpretation of his life in a shade of _same same but different._ The posh ladies looked the same, the suit-wearing men were almost indistinguishable and quite a few children, looking giddy, earnestly bored or trained neutral. He knew the facial expression, he believed he wore it himself, too, being too scared to act against their parents.

“Sir, would you like me to show you to your suite?” A young man slowly approached him. He was wearing the stewards’ uniform together with a non-committal smile. Jean wanted to shrug it off, but he inwardly rolled his eyes at his father’s demand to be presentable at all times, so he couldn’t react on impulse. “I believe you want to show my father the suite.” he corrected him, pointing him into the general direction of his father.

“Do you think they are all this cute?” Valérie said, startling him.  
“Excuse me?”  
“The steward - he was handsome.”  
At the compliment he wanted to turn around and look after the steward, but he thought to himself that he should hone his older-brother-skills first.  
“Don’t say something like that.” he tried to sound scandalized, but it didn’t work. His tone came off as an old lady gossiping, at best. “Be lucky that father didn’t here you.”  
She giggled a bit, holding her horrible hat in her left hand now. Her curls were flattened on top and she looked disheveled. How she managed to do that in just one hour, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was the cool April wind at the dock.  
“I wouldn’t say something like that if he was in hearing range.” she said, smiling confidently. In some ways, she was more mature than he was, being able to make him blush. “Besides, I know you would have noticed too. You do in these things.”

Jean breathed in deeply, trying not to panic. He told himself that Valérie was just being really perceptive – he wasn’t giving clues or anything at all – his father would never pay the amount of attention that Valérie did to him.  
“Please don’t say things like that in public, Val.” he asked quietly. She nodded, still smiling.  
“Come on, I think we’re going now.”

Being dragged along a luxurious, albeit strangely strangling hallway, the made it to the suite, which was practically bigger than two houses of a normal worker combined. They had single bedrooms, single bathrooms and a sunbathed terrace. The handsome-faced steward – Valérie, in the sneaky way she sometimes had, had pressed out of him the fact that his name was Samuel – showed them the rooms, assured his father that the bags would arrive soon and displayed every possible feature the ship had. It sounded excruciatingly expensive, the whole lot of it. It functioned as a mature playground and Jean knew he would hate every single second of it.

Samuel introduced himself as the one in charge, as a butler if they ever needed one – knowing his father, they definitely needed one, even if it was just for the mere sake of having someone to yell at – and presented two maids, or stewardesses, however, who were assigned to them as well. Jean senior probably spent a filthy amount of money on the whole set-up and not even for enjoyment, oh no, for pure representation of his wealth and position.

Jean sometimes was glad they weren’t nobility, because if his father would have been able to be called a Lord as well as a super-rich business man, he would’ve probably imploded out of pride.

While Samuel told his father in detail about when dinner was and what places they could spend their time in, he zoned out. His sister had fled to her own room with one of the maids, probably already changing her dress, given that the luggage started to be brought in, but he, the ever so diligent son, waited calmly until his father’s questions were answered and Samuel vanished through the suits main door.

He had heard that the White Star Line staff was supposed to be cheerful and extremely polite all the time, but he underestimated the truth of that and how demanding that would be. It was straight-out obnoxious, although he would never say that out loud. He learned to shut his mouth a good long while ago.

“Jean.” his father said impatiently. “Jean!”  
“Yes, sir.” he said, half-mocking him.  
“Don’t give me that look, Jean.” his father said severe, staring at him. It made him uneasy, seeing that he could easily pass as the older copy of him. Sometimes he felt as if the grown-up, bitter version of himself admonished him.  
“And what look do you mean when you say that?” he asked, deadpan.  
“The look that says that the whole world is a pain to you. I don’t want to see that look for the next week. Am I understood?” Jean nodded, but he felt as if the real monologue was still coming. “You should be grateful, Jean.”  
He groaned inwardly – _not that shit again_.  
“I give you the chance to try a second time. I let you disband your engagement “  
With the girl you picked and that I didn’t even like as a friend, Jean added silently.  
“So pick up on your behavior and respect.”

Jean dropped his shoulders as soon as his father left his room and he was alone. While letting out a huge sigh, he fell into one of the plush mahogany armchairs that were set around a table that was adorned by a champagne cooler. He eyed the champagne before he decided against drinking before dinner. The room itself had no windows, just polished wooden surfaces that made him nauseous, because there really was no way out. He was practically imprisoned here – unless he wanted to take a bath in the ice-cold ocean, of course. But he couldn’t run away on a ship, no matter if it was the biggest one ever built.

He could have done for a nap, but he shouldn’t start falling back into old habits again. Instead he knocked on his sister’s door that was opened by her own maid, the only servant they brought along.  
“Jean!” Valérie exclaimed. She waved her hand and Hannah, the maid, disappeared discreetly, surely to go and search for her own room.  
“I think I’ll take a walk” he announced, looking at his sister wearing a new dress now. It was a pale yellow one, making her look like a walking lemon-flavored pastry, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. He was glad he wasn’t the one who had to wear a corset after all.  
“Do you want to come?”

“I don’t think there’s anything else to do.” she said, without wavering.

They walked out, all the way to the main hall; taking in the scenery Samuel described so dryly not that long ago. The reception room with the grand staircase wasn’t as full as it could be, but soon they would have to dodge people left and right if they didn’t want to go through the whole acquaintance process. Even Jean had to admit there was a certain appeal to the splendor of the dark wood and red plush, the new carpets and the large dome with the chandelier in the center. It was something he would have appreciated if it wasn’t just another sign of relocation he had to endure.

“I’d say it’s not too shabby” Valérie said.  
“They certainly weren’t miserly putting this together.” he admitted “You want to go outside for a bit? Somehow the smell of the polished wood makes me feel a bit stuffy.”  
“I wanted to see the deck and the promenade anyway.” she said, taking his arm. He threw a last look to the staircase, and then went past the other rooms.

It was as if someone had tried to reenact a whole palace on sea, and the chosen ones living in it were awfully aware of it. The ladies on the promenade were not that different from his sister, but he felt the way they checked him out – he was looking fine, but not special, he thought – made him think they had nothing behind their noble façade.

They sat down on a bench, just watching the people and feeling the breeze. It rustled through the blonde curls of his sister, making her look disheveled again, while his hair couldn’t have moved by anything. It was practically glued to the back.

In a few hours, they would reach France, and Jean imagined for a moment that he could just un-board then. He was from France, Nice, to be accurate, so the language wouldn’t bother him, but he would have a hard time being around. Since he was brought up to rely on money and status, he never learned anything that would’ve proven useful in real circumstances, so he couldn’t get a job for anything. He sighed.

“You’re even moodier than usual, Jean.” his sister noted. “What’s the matter?”  
“I hate this thing.” he said, quietly enough to make sure only she could hear him. She raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you think you just hate _him_?”

He shrugged, looking at the ocean just in front of them. They were on the channel and if he squinted, he imagined he could already see France’s shoreline.

“Well, at least you got to run away from Lady Amy.” Lady Amy, or rather Lady Miranda, as her real name was, was his ex-Fiancée, the one he didn’t especially like.  
Jean gave her an irritated look. “I thought she was your friend.”  
Valérie just tilted her head, smiling sweetly. “Ah, you know how that works. Every fine lady has to be a friend. It’s proper. It’s also phony.”

She sure was right on that one. He sighed.  
“Sigh one more time and I’ll hit you.” she warned “I don’t want to be here, too. And I’m probably father’s next project. He’ll marry me off to the next perverted businessman.”  
“I don’t think so. You still have time.” She was three years younger than him, barely 15, so he couldn’t actually imagine her marrying now.  
“If you say so. But would you swear that one your own grave?”

Before I could deny that, we were startled by a yelling man and a distressed looking girl. Yelling was nothing if not improper, so the always oh-so-restrained high society looked up as their members disgraced them on the deck.

The girl was blonde and even smaller than my sister and she stopped in front of us, breathing as if she’d just run a marathon.  
“Historia! You go back there right now or I swear…” The blonde girl, presumably Historia, swirled around to look the man who had yelled at her straight in the eye.  
“You swear what?” she asked, belligerent. “You’ll hit me again.” Her big, light blue eyes sparked fire, even from the distance between us and the arguing people, and her tone was dangerous. “Go on then.”

“Historia, I warn you, don’t you dare go this far.” The man said. From the similar dangerous tone, you could almost guess their kinship, together with their fair hair. The girl was very small, but she had to be rigorous to stand up to her (presumably) father like that.

“I’m done with this.” she said. “You can go back there and sit down and pretend everything’s fine when it’s not. I no longer care.”  
“Stop now.” he said, grabbing her upper arm while we watched, equally fascinated and horrified, as they had a seemingly private argument out in wide public.  
She tried to get out of his hold, but she was too small to actually do something. He admired her for her braveness when she, out of options, straight out spit on his shoes so he would let go. Before she could go away again, though, he stood up to her furiously, staring at his shoe first and then at her face before he slapped her so hard she fell unto him.

“This talk’s not over! I think we have to rethink our agreement” he said while walking away.

“Ah, shit.” she said, rubbing her face. It looked painful, but she didn’t look as if she was about to cry. The people around us did chat loud and agitated, but avoiding us as if we had leprosy. The girl, Historia, was still leaning against him, jumping a bit backwards when Jean tried to sit up.  
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry” she said, looking at him and his shell-shocked sister – she’d probably never seen a lady, or whatever, go out of her way like that. To be honest, neither had he. -  “For the swearing and the argument and – I messed up, didn’t eye.”

It was as if someone had completely set her back. She was gushing apologies now, looking genuinely horrified at her own behavior, giving us a wide-eyed, disbelieving look.

  
“This is a horrible situation to introduce myself, but I think I should do it anyway out of courtesy.”

From where Jean was standing, there was not much courtesy left to pick up to begin with, but he let her be for the moment.

“I’m Historia Reiss. Well, I was Lady Reiss before, but I don’t think I am now.” she looked flustered. _Now_ , she’d probably start crying every minute.  
“Come, sit down.” Valérie said, obviously getting back to her usual self again. “Calm down.”  
Historia, now sniffling, sat down; looking so pitiful Jean went gave her his handkerchief.  
“I truly am sorry.”  
“Yes, you did say so.” his sister remarked. “I am Valérie Kirschtein and this is my older brother, Jean. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She got it across so genuinely it was enviable.

“See, I have a question” he said, picking at something his mind was stuck about “Is it Lady Reiss as in the third family eligible to the German throne?”  
Valérie looked at him, somewhat astonished, and Historia just started to cry harder, so he patted her shoulder helplessly. Maybe it wasn’t a good conversation starter, after all.

“Yes, it is.” a gruff voice said behind him. “But don’t be so hung up on it.”  
“Ymir!” Historia called, being obviously glad to see the tall, tan maid, who had suddenly appeared at their bench. Jean didn’t say it out loud, but the tough looking Ymir made the maid uniform she was wearing, including the lacy cap in her brown hair, look a tiny bit ridiculous. She seemed very concerned about Historia though, which was why he held a comment back.

“Come on, show me.” Ymir demanded, causing Historia to turn her head around to see the mark he left on her cheek.  
“That bastard.” she cursed. “I swore if he did that again than…”  
Again…? Well, Jean wasn’t in a position to judge other people’s family circumstances.

“Please don’t talk like this.” Historia said, reprimanding her softly “Besides, I am the bastard and you know it.” Valérie looked lost, probably because of the crass language, and Jean couldn’t shake the feeling that they shouldn’t be listening.  
“To use your own words: Please don’t talk like this.” They smiled at each other for a second, until Jean cleared his throat.  
“I think you should go.” Ymir said. “Please, I am sorry for having inconvenienced you.” Historia added, smiling apologetically. Obviously, she was used to Ymir’s behavior. His father would probably kill his servants if they talked like that.

As they went, still feeling uneasy about the whole situation, his sister was the one to speak up first. “Isn’t it unusual for royalty to be like this?”  
“Why, have you been around royalty for so long?” Jean asked, smiling.  
“I’m just saying. And I could imagine father saying something about that as well. “

She was right. When they were going to dinner later, after they had docked in France, their father pulled them aside.  
“Have you heard about the German Reiss family being on board of this ship?”  
The siblings nodded.  
“There seems to be a scandal involved, but I don’t want any of you caught up in this. Especially you, Valérie. You can take Lord Reiss’ daughter’s behavior as a negative example.” So he heard what happened, as well.

Valérie, trying hard not to smile, nodded solemnly, as they placed themselves on one of the luxurious dining hall tables. It was just starting to fill up and the people streaming in were all dressed to the peak. Jean had to put on new clothes and Valérie had changed that yellow dress of hers too, changing it for a deep plume colored one.

Although without talking about it, they both looked at the entrance to get the chance to see Historia entering with her father. When there was loud murmuring in the room, they knew the moment had come. Coming into the dining hall with her father, Historia walked through the double-winged doors with grace. She looked a bit browbeaten, but not enough to dodge the stares of the high society that were already placed. Word travelled fast among rich, bored people – even faster so when they are all huddled together in in narrow spaces.

 She was wearing a light blue dress accentuating her big blue eyes and her flawless white skin. If she didn’t already have quite a reputation, he was sure there would have been multiple guys on her like flies by the end of the evening. So, instead of sticky guys, she had beasty gossip and a tight-lipped Lord Reiss sitting across from her, talking with who he assumed was the ship architect while ignoring her completely. He could see her picking at her dinner from all over the hall.

“You seem distracted, Jean.” his father noticed, peppering his steak.  
“I’m fine.” he waved dismissively.  
“And I didn’t ask.” he said, looking intently at Valérie until she stopped putting the broccoli aside on her plate and forced it into her mouth.

“Is everything to your satisfaction, sir?” a steward asked politely. He looked up to the small man who didn’t look actually interested in his opinion at all. Jean noticed that he was the first one who looked discontent at his job at all.

“Everything is in order, thank you.” he answered, looking at the shiny plate stating his name. It turned out he was French as well, _Rivaille_ , so there were at least two grumpy French people on this ship, two fighting Germans and a good share of passive-aggressive British society.

Jean looked down on his plate. Despite what he’d been saying, he was feeling no appetite at all, no matter how fine everything looked. The steaming food caused him to recoil, but he slowly ate it – at his father’s table, wasting food wasn’t appreciated. He wondered whether his father had been patronizing his mother to the same extent he did to his children (and knowing him, the answer was probably yes), since he wouldn’t know – he was four when she died, leaving Valérie as a baby and him as a toddler who grew up to be a very irritating child. Which was probably the reason his father hardly dealt with him at all when he was younger.

“I want you to come to the Smoking Saloon with me after dinner.” his father announced, neatly folding his napkin.  
“May I ask why?” Jean asked, trying very hard not to sound as annoyed as he was. He didn’t really look forward to spend an evening with the assorted hundreds of Britain’s most boring businessmen. They would probably ask him what he wanted to achieve in his life when really, all he wanted was to be left alone. Much like Historia, he thought, when he looked at the table standing a few feet away from them. She was enveloped in the stone cold silence of her father.

“Because I want you to act like an adult man should.” Jean senior answered in a tone that indicated that they had the same talk over and over again. “And I want to introduce you, get you into some connections as well.” The older man creased his eyebrows, making his receding brown hairline (Jean inherited, unfortunately, his father’s looks right to the long face – a horse face, as the boys in the boarding school he went to used to say) even more pronounced.

“Of course.” Jean complied. Since the day he had finished school, he had been treated like putty that could be shaped into every possible thing his father wanted to. He couldn’t imagine Valérie to have been in a better place, groomed by a hoard of governesses in every possible field. To this day, he couldn’t decide what he hated more, being completely under his father’s reign or the school.

 When he came home from his years in the boarding school, he had to get acquainted to his sister again, trying to fit his image of a bubbly blonde child into the witty girl that stood before him then. She, unlike him, was a mirror’s image of the mother he couldn’t quite remember, and played her part as the spoiled rich girl far better than he played the first born son. The only son.

 The only son was dragged into the already thoroughly smoke-y saloon by his father while his sister flitted of to god-knows-where, probably to engage herself in unwarranted idle talks.  
Filled up with the intense smell of a dozen simultaneously burning cigars, the air in the room made him a bit weak on his feet. He was glad when his father insisted on sitting down on one of the small, green-lined coffee tables. When he looked up from his feet, which were stuck in new black shoes, he saw a familiar face.  
“Eren.” he said, failing to sound excited. Of all the people to meet on a ship cruise, Eren Jaeger, son of one hell of a creepy earl from somewhere in the Black Forest, was the possible worst one. Although he coated his face in a polite expression, the other boy already shot daggers out of his green eyes. They never really got along while they were both sober and each of them tried very hard to forget the one occasion were they got drunk and… well, practically snogged each other. His face went red remembering.

“Horse-face Kirschtein.” the other boy said, leaning back in his seat. “Fancy meeting you here.”  
“Indeed.” he said, biting his lip, risking a look to his father who sat beside him. He cleared his throat. “Father, this is Eren Jaeger. We met each other in boarding school.”  
They customarily shook their hands.  
His father took a cigar from a silver tablet a waiter offered him, and then looked at Eren, taking in his dark brown, gelled hair and fierce eyes.  
“Where are you from, Mr. Jaeger?” he inquired.  
“Actually, it’s Lord Jaeger now. My father… went missing a while ago.” That was news to Jean and he was bothered by the weird pause Eren made in his speech.

“I’m sorry, Lord Jaeger, let me offer my condolences.” his father said over the stretching silence.  
“To answer your question, Mr. Kirschtein, I’m the acting earl of Maria.”  
My father nodded, acknowledging the fact. He even gave Jean a look that could have been interpreted as a positive reaction. Was this the sort of acquaintance his father wanted him to cultivate? Well, he’d always known his father’s knowledge of human nature was underdeveloped.

“I’ll leave you to reminisce, then.” he said, standing up, apparently spotting someone more interesting around. How quickly he gave up the feat of introducing Jean to the important people was remarkable, but when he turned around he saw that he, after nodding and saying “Son. Lord Jaeger.” he moved closer to Historia’s father.

“I’m sorry about your father.” Jean said in an attempt to save the conversation.  
“Yes, thank you.” Eren said.  
“You look … good.” And he really did. He’d finally grown into his suits and if they stood up, Jean was sure that he would be taller than him. When they were fifteen, he’d been a bigger one, but right after that, he ceased to grow taller at all.

Eren rolled his eyes. “Is that what you want to talk about? How I look?” He didn’t seem displeased at the compliment though.  
“Well, then – how’s Armin, then?” Armin was his small, blond butler who had been practically attached to his hip to the point where he went everywhere with them in school even though he was lower class. Eren wouldn’t allow them to badmouth him – or else people would get punched left and right – but Jean thought that Armin, among them all, would’ve probably been able to deal with school better than anyone who actually had lessons.

“He’s fine. Actually, he’s here, too.” he rubbed his neck. “Although I can’t bring him in here, obviously.”  
“That’s regrettable.” Jean agreed “He was good to talk to.”  
“Yeah, he is.”

They were in silence again.  
“Hey, do you want to get out? I mean, not that you would be my first choice.” Of course not. Eren wasn’t his first choice either. “But I can’t stand these people. Especially the one your father’s talking to” he said, thumbing at Historia’s father. “Lord Reiss always gave me the creeps.”

They stood up, leaving the room discreetly. Standing in the reception room, they both breathed deeply. “Want to go on deck? Being the acting Lord Jaeger seems to be an excuse to make me choke on cigar smoke, but I intend to live a while longer.”  
“That’s fine with me.”  
On deck, the night blew cold over the Atlantic Ocean. It was almost too chilly to stand outside without a coat, but he didn’t really want to go back inside. Not when he could breathe freely instead.

“Eren, I brought your-“ they heard from behind, followed by a small cough. “I mean, Lord Jaeger, I”  
“Well, don’t force yourself, Armin” Jean said, almost laughing as he saw the small blond man swivel around, looking abashed.  
“Jean.” he said, sounding relieved. “I’m so sorry, I think I still have to practice.”  
“You don’t have to get flustered over it, really.” He earned himself a small grateful smile and they walked, while Eren put his coat on (he refused Armin’s help) and finally sat down on a bench.

“Eren, don’t mind if I ask, but what are you doing on this ship?”  
He shook his head, smiling to himself. “I have to go to New York to meet my, uh, Fiancée.”

He didn’t recover from the shock, even while searching for a response. “You have… a fiancée?” He uttered. “What, you’re marrying? A girl? Who’d marry you?” He was close to laughing now, and Armin and Eren threw him deprecating looks.

“Don’t act so surprised” Eren mumbled, turning a shade darker “You’ll have to, too, eventually. And what do you mean, a girl?” He glared again. It was his famous “You’re as good as dead”-glare.  
“I’m just… surprised, that’s all.” Jean backpedaled. He looked at Armin, watching Eren closely from the side. He always thought they were… well, it didn’t matter what he thought, after all.

He leaned back, recovering from the little laughter he had.  
“How is she like?” he asked, looking at the stars. He thought of his own disastrous engagement and the uncountable number of horrid forced meet-ups he had with Lady Amy. She wasn’t bad to look at and certainly other guys would have been happy, but he was just out of breath after meeting her. In a bad way, not the “she was so lovely she knocked the breath out of me” sort of way.

“Never really met her.” Eren said, shaking his head. “My father picked her out, without letting me know. Well, not until I read his departure letter.”  
Jean had no trouble imagining ol’ Lord Grisha doing that – he was said to have a knack for troubling his family.

“But out of, I don’t know, upholding traditions or something like that I have to meet her now and marry her.” He seemed tired, as if he’d gone over the ordeal far too often. His hands cradling his chin, he looked up at the sky. “I guess you know her. Lady Mikasa Ackermann.”

Jean’s eyebrows shot up, thinking about the probability of being hit by a lightning bolt this instant. Because the number had to be close to the one stating Eren’s chance of marrying Mikasa Ackermann.  
“You are kidding, of course?” he said, staring at him as if he’d grown a second set of eyes.

“I really am not.”  
“Wow.” Jean didn’t mean to gush, but he was, really, gushing. “Mikasa Ackermann. That’s… frightening.”

Everyone on the ship had to know about Mikasa Ackermann. If you were in the High Society and didn’t prefer living on a lonely island or under a rock, you recognized the name immediately. Mikasa Ackermann was practically a unicorn – from what he heard, she was amazingly perfect, from her looks to her skill in literally everything, languages, riding, hunting… you could name anything. She was marveled upon by ladies telling their daughters to take an example, pursued by an awe-inspiring amount of men and envied, in general. And she was rich, being the heiress to the man who probably possessed half of America’s export industry. The epitome of good breeding in their time, some people said.

“I literally have no words.” he said, starting again, only then noticing how _miserable_ Eren looked.  
“That’s the problem” he said, sounding crestfallen “I have no idea whose boots my father had to lick to make that engagement, but I’m going to feel downright lowly next to her. Do you know how it feels to be outshined by your own fiancée? I wonder who of us is really going to be the trophy.”

“You’re really honest about this whole thing.” Jean said, astonished. They’d never been best friends, so tugging at each other’s heartstrings basically wasn’t an option.

“I had to tell someone. But it’s a secret, you know” he said urgently, panic rising into his eyes “If anybody hears of this, I’m going to be in the press. I don’t want that. None of it. I don’t even know if I will… like her. Let alone, well, uh” Eren’s face went an unhealthy pink tinge “ _bed_ her.”

That was a problem Jean had as well during his engagement. Whilst Lady Amy did her best to even provoke him into kissing her, he didn’t feel the slightest thing. The pure mention of bedding her was enough to bring him nightmares.

“I know I shouldn’t talk about this, because, you know…” Jean started, counting on the others’ understanding “But don’t worry. Think about, uh, other things while you’re at it.” he gulped “Think about, I don’t know, _Armin_.”  
Said Butler shrieked, sounding scandalized. “You shouldn’t say something like this out loud.” he whispered, frantically.  
“But there’s no one around.”  
Eren, who’d covered up his face with his hands, spoke through his fingers: “You know that that shouldn’t even exist.”  
“It doesn’t change the fact that it does exist.” Jean had never talked earnestly about it, but he could feel the distress Eren was feeling, and he pitied him. And while pitying him, he felt he could pity himself.    
“How could you tell?” Eren asked. “How could you tell about Armin and me?”  
“Err, it was really just a wild guess.” he said blushing “You two seem close and-“ _I envy you_ , he thought, _for having a cute butler. A cute butler who doesn’t mind going to hell for you._  
Jean had no one to share the nausea with, the nausea that swept over him whenever he thought how wrong, how abominable he was. He just had his own, self-condescending mind.

“I think we should stop –“ Armin started, but stopped short. He blinked, as if he tried to solve a riddle. He even tugged at his short ponytail, a trait he never quite abolished, it seemed. “Can you hear that?”

They listened, hearing the waves crashing against the hull, the wind sweeping and a little farther distant glasses clinking. Then, there was a voice.

“Someone’s singing” Jean noted, trying to identify a song. It was a sweet song, a love song, just barely carried over to them by the wind. He stood up, moving in the direction, pulled by the deep, velvety voice flawlessly singing. Walking over to the railing, the song became clearer; he could almost identify the melancholic passages.

When he leaned over the railing, a deck down, he could see a man standing. He was young, his hair looking black against the dark night sky. Jean watched him, careful not to make a sound – he wouldn’t want to stop him for anything – taking in the lone figure standing there, in simple dark pants and a shirt with rolled up sleeves.

_“While I kiss away each tear_

_Or else I should be in melancholy too”_

He let the last note hang in the air, turning around slowly, and the moment Jean saw the face that belonged to the voice, he felt a pang, deep inside his guts, telling him that he needed this guy to sing for him again. And preferably never to stop, ever.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I have to admit, the notion of singer Marco did come from [this](http://scholla.tumblr.com/post/78382004388/au-made-just-for-this-song-where-marco-is-a-young)  
> as well. And maybe I like singers because I can't sing for shit. 
> 
> The title is taken from a 1909 record I couldn't even find on youtube (let alone the lyrics) - I guess you can't help it, it's old. But I found the title appealing, well, I guess you'll see.
> 
> The song in the first chapter is "My Melancholy Baby", it was first published in 1912, but I like this [version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oXf-vxNLbUk)  
> .
> 
> Please excuse my mistakes, but it was late and it practically forced it's way out of me (insert a fitting scene out of an "Alien" movie now).


End file.
